


Disconnected

by arctickchild



Series: my friends, we are all glorious [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Multiple Wardens, Gen, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctickchild/pseuds/arctickchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The storm breaks early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disconnected

(1)

The weather doesn't hold.

  
  


(2)

Riordan refuses to move out before dawn.

 _The rest of the army hasn't arrived yet_ , he says, and, _We all need rest, Warden, even you_ , and, _The weather will hold._

You can't explain it to him; the sick feeling of grief and dread coiling in the pit of your stomach, the crash of thunder that echoes your heart beat. The wind has changed, or is changing, or will change; soon the storm will be upon you, and it will be too late.

 _We can't afford to wait._ He isn't listening, but he needs to; you need him to hear you, to listen past the words to the warning beneath. The Fade has never been an easy place for you to understand, but this time there is no mistaking it. _We need to gather what forces we have and move, now. We can send word to the others, but if we stay here the storm will catch us halfway._

The older Warden ruffles your hair with a sad smile. _Get some sleep, Surana. Everything will be fine_.

He is wrong.

  
  


(3)

The city is a mess of smoke and bodies.

The army batters its way through the gates, exhausted and soaked through to the bone. You lead the charge with Brosca and Tabris, thin the crowd as best you can before the bulk of your forces arrive. It isn't enough, and it was never going to be enough; by the time Mahariel and Andras arrive with the army you've barely made a dent in the horde that holds the gate.

The rain is too heavy for you to see properly; you navigate through sound and smell, through the faint thrill of danger the Fade burns into your veins before a blow would cut you down. Alistair is swearing, shouting above the thunder and clash of steel for the army to push on.

“For Ferelden!” someone shouts, and the rallying cry spreads through the disheartened troops like a firestorm.

_For Ferelden!_

You can almost feel the blade that silences it.

  
  


(4)

You fight through the marketplace, burn down homes and merchant stalls in your desperate attempts to thin out the mass of tainted bodies between you and victory. Mahariel and Tabris went to the alienage; Brosca and Alistair are trying to hold the gates; Andras is limping along weakly beside you, flinging spells that take far more from her than they should.

“We need to fall back!” Oghren shouts, voice hoarse and pained over the chaos. Andras' mouth is a grim line, her forehead twisted with pain and exertion.

“We can't!” she shouts back. “Sten, left!”

The qunari turns, catches the blade across his left forearm, and shoves back. “We must regroup,” he advises, voice even despite the blood spilling over his armor, but Andras won't. You can feel her anger, her frustration, and it boosts her natural stubbornness into overdrive.

There will be no tactical withdraws, no rest, no reconsideration.

“Surana, get us a way out of here!” she orders instead, and the unspoken _whatever it takes_ boils across your skin.

 _Forgive me,_ you think, and then you reach through and tear at the fraying strings of the Veil.

  
  


(5)

Riordan falls.

“We need to fall back!” Alistair's eyes are hard. Andras watches her mentor fall and she won't, you know she won't, and she was never going to. This is her last stand; she will fall, and she will burn, but she will not surrender Denerim to a mad god.

“Andras,” you say, lay a hand on her elbow. “Shara, we can still win. But we need to regroup.”

Her laugh is cold, and broken.

“We can't,” she says, and the battle is lost. “We press forward.”

You meet Alistair's eyes, and you can see the argument there, the fight boiling beneath his skin. You wonder what his life will be like when this is over; you wonder which road he'll choose, how far he'll let this drive him before he breaks.

“Forward,” you agree hollowly.

  
  


(6)

You never make it to Fort Drakon.

You always knew you never would.

  
  


(7)

Andras' blood is still warm on your hands, the Fade torn open as you scream. Alistair is halfway to the gates, giving the order to fall back. You don't know where Tabris and Brosca are; Mahariel's body lays broken beneath the archdemon's claws.

You understand now, why the world so quickly forgets the Wardens. It is because they belong to a time marked by war and grief, born of the pain that boils along your spine and the rage that sparks from your fingertips. You have already lost so much, sacrificed everything you had and still it has not been enough; still the city burns around you, scorches the memory of life and light that once filled the streets.

They forget because the alternative is this; a broken soul, kneeling in darkness and screaming. _You have given enough._ They will risk and sacrifice and die in this war, and it will not be enough, will never be enough, because there is still more that they can give. There is still more that you can give.

 _I'm sorry_ , you think, and feel it echo through the Fade that bleeds around you. _Run._

There is not enough power left in you for what happens next.

You wipe the blood from Andras' cheek, and reach for what she has left to offer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i dont check my mail that often so any urgent comments/questions/concerns should be directed to arctick-child.tumblr.com


End file.
